First and Last
by FinnFiona
Summary: A trio-centric oneshot on the death of Harry Potter--at an appropriately old age--taken from the perspective of Teddy Lupin. Companion pieces "Sleeping Without Her" posted 7/7/08, "Going" 9/1/08, and "As Before, and Never Again" 11/2/08; can be read alone


**Author's Note: Sorry for the delay on **_**Seconds**_**, but the idea for this story popped into my head and I couldn't stop thinking about it until I'd written it out. A huge thank you to Steph (MBP) for taking a look at it for me—and I think also for being a significant inspiration for the story (you all should take a look at her work—it's fantastic). At any rate, I hope you all enjoy—and please, read and review!**

When I was only a kid, oh so many years ago, I thought he was invincible. Truth be told, I thought they were all invincible.

But now I'm an old man, which only means that he is—was—even older. They still are, I suppose.

There was always a part of me that retained a foolish childhood notion: death was afraid of them. After all that they had been through, how could that dark veil be forced to part? It had been wrong so many times. _They_ had been wrong.

But now it is my turn to err.

For here I am, presented with the naivety of my youth. Death, for one of them, had found its courage.

Victoire whispers in my ear that she will be back at the house with the rest of our burgeoning family. Cousins, children, grandchildren. They had all been here today. But it is the two which remain that I am most concerned about. For they are, truly, the only two left.

I notice with a pang in my heart that Ron is sitting on the tract of land that will, one day, be his final resting place. Hermione is nestled in his lap, much as this patch of grass is nestled between the final home of George and Angelina to their left and Ginny on their right.

Ginny—and now Harry.

Though I cannot, from this distance, read the headstone, I know what Ron's fingers are deftly tracing. _Brother_. It was the only portion of the epitaph that Ron insisted upon. No one, of course, had argued.

As Hermione leans onto his shoulder, gently cupping his cheek in her palm, they share a small, knowing smile. Yet their eyes are pained—full of more grief than I have ever seen them in all of my many years.

I realize with a shiver that this is the first time that they have ever really seemed old to me. Of course they are, even by wizarding standards. After all the stories I've heard of Dumbledore, I think that Harry, Ron and Hermione must have turned out an awful lot like him, in that way. They've always maintained some spark, some energy that I—with my knurled walking stick—have come to envy.

That changed, though, a few years back.

When Harry woke one morning to find his beloved wife, forever asleep beside him, I thought he would die on the spot. As it was, the green of his eyes never shone quite the same without her fire lighting the soul of the man behind them.

Though I know his children—and perhaps my own small influence—gave him a reason to live on, I suspect it was Ron and Hermione that really kept him going. They wouldn't—couldn't—let him go.

But Harry has… no, had, been ailing for awhile now. Though his best friends did all that they could to share their strength with him, I saw that his own glimmering embers—once a fervent flame—were slowly fading away.

It was incredibly hard for me to see, even with many years of what I hope is wisdom under my belt. Because this was Harry, for Merlin's sake. This was the man who had taught me the proper way to execute a dive on a broomstick, who begrudgingly told me how to get a girl's attention (or at least what _not_ to do), who held me after a nightmare and told me there was nothing to be scared of, but that he understood. He was always just so… gently powerful.

I still remember when I was 12, and home from Hogwarts, bursting in on him and Ron and Hermione in the study and demanding that they teach me how to duel. Ginny was in the back garden with the children, but I had been sulking, remembering a particularly embarrassing recent encounter with my schoolboy nemesis just before the holiday.

The three of them just stared at me blankly for a moment, before they all started to laugh. I was fuming, of course, thinking they were laughing at me. But I soon realized they were laughing at a shared memory of their own first dueling lesson. This was something that I would come to associate with the three of them—this uncanny ability to always be on the same page. I would only learn later that that dueling lesson had not been nearly as funny at the time, but they had learned to consider it so. Ron would joke that he could speak Parseltongue better than Harry now—and Hermione, ever the voice of reason, said that was because Harry had never really heard it exactly, though she would look at Ron with pride, remembering another story I had not yet heard in its entirety. Thinking back on it now, I expect it made it easier for them to laugh at what they could, after all of the darkness that had characterized much of their own youth—a darkness I would later be eternally grateful that I was unfamiliar with.

As always, they finally regained their composure and did their best to help me with my problem. I spent most of that lesson, though, simply watching them in awe. I didn't know at the time that this was not a skill that any of them were particularly proud of or especially liked to recall—even Harry, who still did it for a living. I don't know that I would have asked them to do it if I had.

When my first grandson expressed a similar interest in learning how to duel, I knew where he had to go. Sending the appropriate messages ahead, I took him along to Grimmauld Place. When we arrived on the front stoop he looked at me with confusion. Not that he didn't like Harry and Ginny very much, but—in his words—they were ancient.

I didn't try to argue with him. But when Ron and Hermione arrived as I had requested, the four of them—as Ginny joined in as well, being quite a talented witch in her own right—made their way out back. I smiled as my grandson's jaw went slack, watching these four whip around furiously, locked in silent battle. I agreed with his unvoiced appraisal: age didn't matter—this, _this_ was power.

Yet now that strength that I'd always viewed as a given, an inherent quality in my godfather, was gone.

I was somewhat selfishly relieved when Ron and Hermione decided to move back in with Harry. I needed to know that he was taken care of, but I didn't think that I could bring myself to watch his deterioration every second of every day. I wonder if James, Al and Lily had the same thought. Any of us would have done it, of course, but when Ron and Hermione settled in, I knew that it was the best thing for Harry—even if it was probably harder for them than it ever could have been for me.

Last week, I went to visit Harry, as I'd come to do quite often—as all of his children, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren had come to do. It was really a wonder that the house was empty when I arrived.

When I entered his room, though, my breath caught in my chest. His eyes were watery but his cheeks were dry. It only took me a moment to realize it was his wedding ring that he was staring at intently, clasped between his now brittle fingers.

I managed to choke out a hello before I took my place on the edge of the bed.

"I miss her," Harry whispered.

I could only nod in response. We managed to chat for a few minutes before he turned serious again. He told me how proud he was of me, how honored he had been to have played a part in my life. I think my heart was long since in my throat by then, but I hope I conveyed to him that it was I who was proud—I who was honored—I who was so very thankful.

It was Harry's last request to me, though, that caused me to lose my battle with the hot tears that had been threatening to fall. Because he asked me, with a desperately earnest look in his eyes, to make sure that Ron and Hermione would be all right.

"I miss her," he repeated, once again contemplating the small gold band. "But I don't know… I don't know how to—to do this without them."

I felt I couldn't possibly speak, but I heard myself saying, "Of course, Harry," in a quiet voice.

"They were my very first friends, you know," he said with a small, far-off smile. "And the best," he added, the smile broadening.

I nodded again. I had heard the stories. I had watched for a lifetime as their care for each other somehow found impossible new depths. I knew.

With a last, tight hug, I wished Harry goodbye, saying I would come to see him again in a few days.

Slipping out into the hall, I couldn't shake the feeling that I wouldn't, in fact, be seeing him in a few days. I made my way down to the drawing room, where I found Ron and Hermione, just sitting quietly in front of the fire. When they saw my white face and glassy eyes, though, they shared a look of concern and an almost imperceptible nod.

Hermione, with a quiet, "Oh, Teddy…" simply squeezed my shoulder before making her way out of the room. Ron made to follow her but stopped in the doorway to tell me I could wait there, if I liked. He added in a small voice that maybe I should.

As I sank into one of the high-backed armchairs, I understood that they must know something that I didn't—or that I didn't want to.

They didn't come down that afternoon. And as evening turned into night, I felt my eyes drooping even as I stayed rooted to the spot. I couldn't leave—I don't think my legs would have carried me.

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of heavy rain. But it couldn't mask the soft, plaintive, heart-wrenching sobs that were echoing from somewhere above me.

And still, I couldn't move. I waited until Ron and Hermione found me there. I'm not sure if they remembered that I had stayed. They walked into the room, obviously holding each other up, and sat across from me on the sofa. Hermione met my eyes and nodded at the question she found there. He was gone.

We talked for hours, remembering. Ron and Hermione's hands never fell apart. I saw their knuckles grow white as their palms pressed together whenever we reached a memory that was particularly close to their hearts. They would steal a glance at one another when they thought the other wasn't looking—but they both knew it. They've known each other seemingly without thinking for as long as I can remember.

I was reminded of this when Ron, glancing upstairs, bit his lip as his eyes filled with fresh tears. Hermione slipped her arm around his back and leaned her forehead to his shoulder, appearing to know what he was thinking of. I was left wondering, but not daring to ask, until Ron choked out, "He _thanked_ me for being—for being kind to him on the train on that first trip to school… blimey, I mean—I always thought _he_ was the one who was nice to me… but—but Merlin… what if I—what if I hadn't even met him that day?" Ron finished with a plaintive look at Hermione, who was crying steady, silent tears that matched her husband's, even as she rubbed her hand over his shaking shoulders. "But you did," she said softly, "you did."

Ron smiled slightly then, and nodded. As his breathing grew steadier, I found my own belabored heart slowing in response. And then Ron surprised me by telling me a story that had always been glossed over in my youth—the story of the first time that Harry Potter "died." Even as Hermione redoubled in renewed tears in his arms, Ron seemed to meet my eyes with a certain resilient conviction behind the sadness. I think it was then that I realized that as grief-stricken as he and Hermione were, they were grateful that their friendship with Harry hadn't been severed then, on that night—that they'd actually had many more years together.

It was during this conversation that I vocalized a belief that I'd never realized I'd had. Somewhere in my mind, I'd always expected Harry to outlive me. Hermione fixed me with a stricken look, and said that she couldn't imagine outliving one of her children. Ron nodded in agreement.

I couldn't help but smile then as I nodded as well. I knew what she meant—for I had long since come to think of them as surrogate parents. I can't deny that I've cried and raged at the injustice that deprived me of my own, and I'm thankful that I had my grandmother for the time that I did—but I've always counted myself lucky that in Ginny and Harry, and in Ron and Hermione, I had two sets of people who cared for me and looked after me as their own.

Now, as I watch Ron and Hermione sit in silence by the grave, I can't believe that they are the only part of that family which remains. I can't even imagine what it must be like to be the last of an entire era of people—of all of their friends and family that they grew up with, now gone.

At least they have each other. As I watch them stand and Hermione's hand joins Ron's on the cold stone, silent tears streaming down her face, that's all that I can think. Not for the first time, I fervently hope that I love Victoire even half as much as they love each other. I know that it's the only thing that will keep them going now that such a vital part of their lives is missing. I know it as I watch Ron not even bother to wipe his own wet cheeks, choosing instead to hold Hermione tightly as they run their hands as one over the name of their dearest friend. I know it as he looks out over the graves of his family which surround him, and then back at Hermione with the smallest trace of a sad, but tender smile. I know it as she returns his gaze with a peace of understanding and unmistakable warmth beneath the chill of sorrow, and leans into his still tall frame.

They're still strong, I can see that. But it's not the same. Three is supposed to be three—not two. But they were there for Harry until the end, as I know they'd always wanted to be. Harry was right, after all—they were his first and best friends. It was a charge that they cherished together, even when they were also his last.


End file.
